Three Ways Sherlock Holmes Came Back From The Dead
by Shacklebolt's Mistress
Summary: (And One Way He Didn't.) Johnlock. First Sherlock fic. Four stories about Sherlock's return, and one... not? Rating to cover my ass in case stuff gets a bit naughty laters. This summary is awful! Luckily I saved all of my good writing for the actual story.


Three Ways Sherlock Holmes Came Back From The Dead (And One Way He Didn't.)

So, this is my first ever Johnlock fic… It's actually my first foray outside the realm of Harry Potter. I hope that it is enjoyable and that it fits in nicely. This will be a four chapter deal, and it does what it says on the packet. This is also slash, don't like, don't read.

In case anyone is wondering I am still working on my two fics Words by Fangirls and Slash By Numbers, I have not abandoned them and will be posting on those soon.

I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this story.

The First

At first he thought he was okay. Not happy, not joyful, not even a little bit glad, but he thought that it was something that he could deal with. This was a weight that he could bear. It was only later, only when it was too late, that he found that this feeling had been a kind of shellshock. His own special brand. He had wandered about numbly, navigating the streets of London sightlessly, never heeding the people or the buildings nor the hours and minutes that passed. Somewhere along the way he had begun to limp about numbly. Then he had started using a cane again and his eyes had been opened.

Now he could barely move some days- something as simple as a scarf tied just so, or a mop of dark curly hair disappearing around a street corner was enough to have him madly chasing their owner, limp forgotten for a minute. They would always look dazed when he reached out a hand and called out _his name_. He'd stutter an anguished apology and turn away before he saw the pity in their eyes. Other times these stimuli would knock the wind clean out of him, he'd shake and seek out the nearest chair and sit in a cold sweat until he worked up enough courage to retreat to his new lodgings, where he'd curl up in bed and stay there trying desperately not to see Sherlock in the Palace, clad in a sheet and his best anti-establishment smirk. He'd try not to miss the severed heads in the fridge and the thumbs in the crisper or that bloody daft skull on the mantle. But it was all for nothing because no matter how hard he tried he just couldn't shake Sherlock. The detective was everywhere, yet he was nowhere. He was gone and John was drowning without him.

Six months had passed and John was a gaunt, miserable cripple. He hadn't even tried to get a job. He was useless, and soon to be homeless but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he cared about was a shade of a great man, a cigarette smoke spectre of the dead, just as tangible and just as addictive and it was killing him. He expected to be dead soon too, if he continued the way he had. He expected that Lestrade and Mycroft were staying away because he could be unpredictable. He expected that Molly and Mrs. Hudson stayed away because he was a reminder of Sherlock. What he didn't expect was to receive a text message on a cold, autumn Friday.

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.  
S.H

John stared at the message with disbelieving eyes. His hands shook as he texted his reply.

I don't know who you are but that isn't funny.  
J.W

Within seconds he had received another message.

You once told me not to be funny. You said that I should stick to ice.  
S.H

John remembered the graveyard in the town outside of the Baskerville Base and wondered who had heard, who was winding him up now with this cruel joke.

Leave me alone. Stop this nonsense. I killed for a living, don't make me find you.  
J.W

John's heart beat frantically in his chest.

You were a doctor… though you did have bad days, didn't you? I'm outside, come if it's convenient.  
S.H

Come even if it's inconvenient.  
S.H

John saw red, and charged for the front door, his cane left by the couch. He threw open the door to see someone standing with their back to him, dark coat, dark hair._ This isn't fair_ a frantic part of him cried. What was going on? Then the man before him turned.

"You look awful, John." Sherlock Holmes said softly. John's knees failed and he toppled to the floor. Sherlock rushed to help him up, and a soon as his hand met John's arm the ex-soldier sprang into action, connecting a left jab and a right hook into _that face, _hoping to fracture those cheekbones. Sherlock recoiled, and dabbed at his nose.  
"I don't understand. Why would you…oh, sentiment?"  
"Something like that." John replied before he hit Sherlock again. The detective crumpled like paper, and John dragged him inside.

***  
Sherlock awoke slowly, his head buzzing from John's fists, his back aching from John's couch. John was in the small kitchenette muttering to himself. He slammed about in there for a while only to emerge, still cursing, with a tray laden with teacups and biscuits. He threw himself into an armchair and sipped at his tea, staring moodily over Sherlock's right shoulder. Unaccustomed to being the person on the receiving end of a sulk, Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to do… well, that's not true, he had thought of nine clever ways to deal with this particular problem, but he felt, somehow, that cleverness would make it worse. Instead, he sat up and tipped sugar into his own tea, stirred it quietly and sipped at the hot, tangy liquid. He looked at John, the bloggers eyes blazing, staring fixedly at the grimy wall. When he did speak it was strong and forceful and Sherlock almost flinched at the sound of it.  
"Why now?"  
Sherlock shrugged.  
"It was all so dull and boring."  
John's head whipped around and he looked at Sherlock then, his jaw set, his teeth clenched and his nostrils flaring. He leapt out of his seat, knocking over the coffee table and pacing around the room as he raged.  
"_Bored_? You've been _bored_? Fucking hell, Sherlock! I've been… drowning without you! I've been _dying_ for HALF A YEAR!," John stopped and stood in front of Sherlock, his hands limply hanging at his sides as the fight rushed out of him and a fearful edge tinged his voice, "I saw you. I watched you _die_... and then I begged for you to not be dead… I'd have given…" He crouched down now, shielding himself from the world with his hands, his voice becoming more muffled, "I'd have given… Oh, God. Sherlock. Why?" He peeked up at his friend then, through his arms, the tears flowed freely now.  
"WHY COULDN'T YOU HAVE STAYED DEAD?!"  
"Because, I'm selfish."  
"What?" Sherlock looked away.  
"I couldn't bear to watch you die." It was almost a whisper.  
"You've been watching me?" John sat on the floor now, staring at Sherlock, who refused to look back.  
"Yes."  
"Why?"  
"I don't know…"  
"Sentiment?" John asked quietly. Sherlock turned his gaze back to John.  
"Something like that…" Sherlock's long fingers played at the bruising on his face from where John had punched him. Then, he was ashamed to say, he looked away.  
"I don't understand." John murmured. Sherlock sighed impatiently.  
"Once again John, you see but you do not observe."  
"Fuck off with that bollocks. Make it easy for me for once, Sherlock. Spell it out." John was getting weary. He pulled himself off the floor and slumped back into the armchair. Sherlock's tongue worried his right molars as he gazed to the ground, a tear forming in his eye. He rubbed his face with a flat palm and said.  
"Do you remember when we first went to Angelo's?"  
"What?"  
"You asked the right questions then…"  
"What?"  
"Ask them again, John!" Realisation was slowly dawning on the good doctor, and he tried hard not to get too far ahead of himself.  
"So, uh, do you have a girlfriend?"  
"No, that's not really my area." Sherlock gazed across the room at John who returned eye contact without blinking.  
"You got a boyfriend then?"  
"Yes… well, I think so. There has certainly been talk."  
"Talk?"  
"Well, people talk, don't they?" Sherlock asked.  
"It's all they ever do." John answered in a daze.  
"I think it is highly over-rated, all this talking." Sherlock somehow was kneeling in front of John's chair, and then somehow his hands were twisting into John's overgrown hair and his lips were on John's dry ones and it was glorious and clumsy and ridiculous and… well, John wondered when he would wake up. Then those hands that were so skilful on the violin began to range over John's body and those lips stopped kissing him and that honeyed gravel voice whispered in his ear.  
"I… "  
"I know."  
"Well?"  
"This probably won't make the blog." They laughed together then, a strange sound to both of them after the last six months until Sherlock and John stopped laughing and the detective kissed his soldier again. A mischievous smirk crossed his features.  
"Let's make this worth not writing about…" He pulled John to his feet and led him to the bedroom.


End file.
